


never alone in here

by sidewinder



Category: The Police (Band)
Genre: Apocalypse, Dark, Gen, Isolation, Stewart/Taylor (and maybe others?) if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24324022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: They were nine months into the apocalypse, and his supplies were starting to run low.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	never alone in here

**Author's Note:**

> It’s not really about covid-19...but it could be. I feel rusty from not having written in almost a year but I was inspired by this [quarantine video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SM6F6-jJz60) of Stewart's, which I couldn't get out of my OWN head.

They were nine months into the apocalypse, and his supplies were starting to run low.

Stewart noted this, absently, while warming a can of soup on the stove. He estimated he could get by for another month, maybe two, on what he had remaining. He didn’t need much being here on his own. His next emergency food delivery was scheduled for a week from today—although what would be in it and whether it would even arrive was increasingly uncertain.

That was fine, though. Nothing he could do about it, unless he wanted to brave the outside world to seek out more. As it was he hadn’t left the house since the week before the official lockdown began and he had no intentions of doing so now.

The president kept making promises that things were getting better, they were getting closer to a vaccine, a cure, and end to all this. Stewart could believe the last part of that but had no faith in the rest. What little faith he might have had months ago had slipped away with each person who’d since disappeared from his life.

He’d stopped counting the losses several months ago. Easier to keep track of those few who were still left.

He finished his bland and near flavorless meal, tuning out the sirens in the distance outside, not bothering to turn on the news. In his head, he had music in mind; he concentrated on that to drown out the rest.

He cleaned his bowl, washed everything with diligence and left the kitchen for his studio. This place was his sanctuary, the room where he spent close to all his time now. The Sacred Grove, as he’d baptized it years before, a holy place since its first planning stages. It was a place of music and ritual, of creativity and play. A place where he could invite anyone and everyone—friends and compatriots of the entertainment world, brothers and sisters and even sometimes lovers—to come join him to make noise, explore possibilities, and laugh.

Nowadays, it was only himself and his computer system that remained...along with many hard drives full of ghosts and memories. He was living in complete solitary confinement, and yet, he was never alone in here.

Launch the right file and Les was there beside him, landing some impossibly funky beat while singing nonsense rhymes. From another folder he could invoke mighty Neptune himself, good old Neil, to humble him while trying to keep pace with the master’s impeccable beat.

_(At least Neil had managed to exit stage left before these end times had begun; he might be the luckiest one.)_

In a directory backed up and saved in multiple locations for posterity, he could find Taylor’s sparkling smile and unfailing positive spirit. That beautiful Sunshine Kid, tearing up Stewart’s octobans or goofing around with his brass instruments...those were some of Stewart's favorite clips and memories.

They were some of the most painful to revisit now as well.

So many others from days past, carefully locked away in here, ready for the summons to come join him one more time.

But for some reason today he preferred his own company. The song in his head itching to come out appeared only meant for himself.

He began on the kit, mics and cameras kicking in as he took a seat and struck his first beat. Recorded, then looped over and over, he added each layer and instrument one at a time. Bass and guitar, bells and horns, Stewart became his own band, his own orchestra. The short tune fell together for him in less than an hour. Next he would edit the video into something shareable, something he could send out into the world beyond.

If there was still anyone out there watching on social media, anybody who cared about more than mere survival.

Best to not think too much about that, though. Best to avoid the stats on his channel to see how the number of views were dropping with each missive he dispatched from quarantine. Someday, he hoped, the world would return to something resembling normalcy again. He might or might not be there to see it, but he still had music to get out of his head before giving up. Before all his supplies dwindled to nothing or the power went out, taking all his friends, those ghosts of the past, with it forever.

Stewart was never alone in here—and that’s why he never wanted to leave.


End file.
